


all we inherit

by unpossible



Series: Building Something [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 19:26:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unpossible/pseuds/unpossible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“C’mon,” Stiles whines, half-turning. “You can’t drag me into your lap and then expect me not to want to hit that.”</p>
<p>Mark dies a little at ever having heard that phrase come from his son’s mouth, let alone directed at an older, leather-jacket-wearing accused murderer with seemingly permanent three day growth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Piscaria who beta'd my strange, disjointed baby for me. 
> 
> This entire section will be from Sheriff Stilinski's POV, because of reasons. Part 3 of this verse will return to Derek and Stiles POV. The Sheriff has been Mark to me in all my other fics, so I'm going to stick with that because I'm laaaazy.

 

It happens by accident. Mark drags some new surveillance equipment home to play with, gets a call-out in the middle of things and busts out of the house without turning the damn thing off properly. It’s a day and a half later before he remembers and drives home on his lunch break to collect the equipment he’d left bundled on the hall table. So he’s sitting at the kitchen table, eating a sandwich one-handed and unhooking cords and wires when he realizes that something actually recorded.

He switches it on out of idle curiosity, mostly to see if he can remember how to retrieve the files. “Damn digital age,” he’s grumbling, trying out the skip-forward-and-back functions when suddenly it’s Stiles on the screen, bursting through the front door with incredible violence. Mark blinks and rewinds, watches in real-time to see that no, that’s definitely his son slamming the front door open hard enough that it bounces back off the wall.

 _Fight with Scott_. Mark shakes his head and goes to turn it off when he gets a good look at Stiles’ face. The black and white feed doesn’t let him judge paleness too accurately, but the fixed blankness is an expression he’s not ever likely to forget and his stomach lurches in sympathy. Mark’s half out of his chair before he remembers this was recorded days ago and Stiles was fine at breakfast this morning, and well enough to call Mark at the station last night.

He’s been plenty withdrawn lately, though. Been plenty absent, too.

Mark slumps back in his chair and scrubs his hands over his face, heart aching. “Why didn’t you call me, kid,” he murmurs, and watches Stiles stumble forward until he just sinks to his knees in the hallway and curls up, rocking.

God _damn_ it. Is he that much of a shitty parent? He reaches out a hand to trace Stiles’ figure and feels his throat close over. Stiles has been distant for a year or more, wilder stories, more secrets, and that terrible night with the Martin girl ending up hurt and a nurse disappearing from the hospital, but-

Surely Stiles is still _his_? Enough for _this_ , anyway, for his kid to call when he needs his Dad? He hasn’t lost him entirely, has he? It’s just a part of growing up, right? He’s seventeen now, he’s only going to get more independent-

Mark’s thoughts screech to a halt when Stiles shifts, because it’s getting worse and he’s hyperventilating, scratching on the god damn floor and he’s saying something, repeating something and _where are the blasted audio controls?_

By the time he locates them Stiles has collapsed, face pressed to his knees and Mark barely has a moment to make sense of it _not strong enough can’t leave him he’ll drown_ before he sees the front door fly open again and his entire world is tipped upside down.

Because Derek Hale is in his house. Accused murderer Derek Hale is slamming Mark’s front door shut and dropping to his knees in front of Mark’s son. And oh joy, clever Mark for locating the damn audio controls because now he gets an earful of Derek Damn Hale calling Stiles’ name in a low, urgent tone, while _Derek Damn Hale_ wraps his arms around Stiles and draws his face up, doing all the things that are rightfully Mark’s to do, thank you very much.

He just sits there, open-mouthed, as Hale shifts Stiles’ weight like it’s nothing, settles the younger boy’s back against his chest with enough familiarity to set Mark’s teeth on edge. _“Stiles,”_ Hale says, and leans them both back against the wall at the base of the stairs. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” His hand smooths over Stiles’ brow and tips his head back against Hale’s shoulder, legs bracketing the teenager’s thighs. “I’m here.”

 _He’s_ here? He’s- _god damn_ \- he’s _here?_ Mark’s on his feet, pacing and mumbling, and he’s not proud of the fact that when he finally gets control of his temper enough to notice, his hand is resting on his weapon. He uncurls it carefully and flexes his hand, shaken. He’s not- that’s not who he is. He’s happy to make you-know-I’m-the-Sheriff-and- I-own-a-dozen-gun jokes, sure. But he’d _never_ \- not really.

Especially since - he swears low and vicious - it seems that Hale is actually doing a good job, damn his black soul straight to _hell_. On the screen Stiles is leaning back against him, still panting too fast but no longer mumbling, and he’s clutching at the hand Hale has placed over his heart like it’s a lifeline.

Mark gets the sudden, uncomfortable feeling that he might not be ready to see this.

A heartbeat later he remembers that he’s technically an eavesdropper and there’s a sweeping sense of _ickiness_ as he sinks back into his seat. Stiles is entitled to his privacy – and yet. He’s clearly lying to Mark about a hell of a lot. See: _Derek Hale in Mark’s house._

His hand hovers over the mute button, moves to the stop button and then back to the audio again. Watching without listening, is that less creepy? Of course, by the time he decides, he’s heard enough to make him hesitate again.

“Just breathe,” Hale is saying into Stiles’ neck. Mark grits his teeth at seeing something that looks so close to a nuzzle. “Nice and slow and even. Breathe with me. That’s it.”

“Derek?” Stiles says without opening his eyes.

“I’m here.”

 _Yeah, you are_ , Mark thinks grimly. _Sitting on my freakin staircase_. How old _is_ Hale, anyway?

“How, h-how, how’d you know?” Stiles manages between gasps.

“Saw you driving past the store. You can’t drive when you’re like this, Stiles,” he says, and Mark hates himself for nodding in agreement. And for feeling better that at least Stiles hadn’t called Hale, either. Yes, apparently he is that petty.

“Was nearly home,” he mumbles, and his breathing is evening out, hand not clutching so hard at Derek now.

“Just call me,” Hale says. “It’s not worth risking a car accident.”

Mark folds his arms and frowns harder. That’s _his_ place to say.

“Not helpless,” Stiles mumbles, and Mark sighs, scrubs his hand over his face again. _Stiles_. Always taking care of others, always refusing help for himself.

“No-one who’s seen you throw a Molotov cocktail could ever think you were helpless, Stiles.” Derek sighs in a way Mark is intimately familiar with, protective and exasperated all at once. Mark shakes his head, angry with his kid, angry with Hale and angry with himself, for a variety of reasons. _Molotov cocktail?_ That’d _better_ be a damn joke.

“Okay,” Stiles says, and swallows. “I’m good now. Really. All better.”

“Give yourself another minute.”

“Don’t wanna,” Stiles mumbles and Mark bites back a tired half-laugh and then chokes when his son adds slyly, “Dad won’t be home for hours...”

 _“Stiles,”_ Derek shakes his head while Mark blinks rapidly.

Oh _shit_. Oh _no_. He’d been ignoring the intimacy of their hold, telling himself _it’s medicinal, it’s just for the panic attack, it’s not-_

“C’mon,” Stiles whines, half-turning. “You can’t drag me into your lap and then expect me not to want to hit that.”

Mark dies a little at ever having heard that phrase come from his son’s mouth, let alone directed at an older, leather-jacket-wearing accused murderer with seemingly permanent three day growth.

 _I’m seeing someone_ , Stiles had said, just two nights ago.

“Oh _God_ no,” Mark says and fumbles for the audio controls, for the stop button, anything-

“Stiles,” Hale says again, and _thank you baby Jesus_ his tone is about as inviting as a brick wall, body language just as unyielding.

Stiles nuzzles against that god damn stubble and sighs. “Tease,” he says, hand coming up to cup Hale’s cheek, thumb stroking gently. It’s so... familiar, so _intimate_ that Mark freezes with his hand on the button.

Of everything he’s just seen, that one caress is the show-stopper.  That is _not_ teenage hormones. That’s- something deeper. He recognizes that kind of tenderness, he had it, once. Oh God. How far has this gone while he was looking the other way?

“You are a dirty rotten tease with your abs and your brooding and your hot car,” Stiles goes on, shifting to curl up in Hale’s lap, “and I swear to God on my eighteenth birthday you are going to find me rolling around naked in your bed with a ribbon tied around m-”

Mark punches the off button in blind horror and sits silently in his kitchen for a long, long time.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So... a man in his twenties, a man I have arrested more than once,” he adds deliberately, “is more-than-friends with my underage son.”
> 
> “I’m not sleeping with him,” Hale says. He doesn’t sound defensive or nervous, more... resigned.

 

 

Hale doesn’t even have the decency to look nervous or surprised when Mark pulls up in front of his house.

“Sheriff,” he greets Mark from the porch, wiping his hands on a cloth. From the smell of it he’s varnishing something. Mark eyes him again. Black t-shirt, stubble, stupid face. Yup. The same brand of trouble he’s been trying to forget he saw with his arms wrapped around Stiles.

He gives Hale a hard stare for long enough to make him sweat. Hale, of course, seems unruffled. Stiff, as usual, but not terrified. Mark folds his arms, grudgingly impressed. And, unwillingly he thinks of the way Hale had said no to Stiles on that tape. It would take someone with a hell of a lot of guts and even more willpower to protect Stiles from himself. You give that kid an inch and he’ll take roughly seventeen miles.

Not that Hale was going to be giving Stiles-

Grr.

“I’m not here as the Sheriff,” Mark says. He’s changed into civilian clothes, has his weapon locked in the trunk. He’s driving his patrol car, but that was convenience more than anything else. He watches the first sign of unease flicker over Hale’s face.

Huh. More nervous about _Mark Stilinski_ than the Sheriff. Well. He can work with that. It’s the first good news he’s had all week.

“All right. What can I do for you, Mr Stilinski.”

“You can talk to me about your relationship with my underage son.”

He leaves that one just sitting there like a time bomb and watches Hale’s fingers tighten on the oily rag for a half-second before he gives a sharp nod. “Come in.”

He steps back and motions Mark to precede him into the house.

It’s changed a lot since Mark was last here. Of course, it’d been a _crime scene_ last time Mark was here. _And_ the time before that, come to think of it. Jesus, this kid’s _life_.

He takes a moment to glance around, takes in the new timber floor and the huge expanse of leather couch. It’s the only piece of furniture aside from the TV and a well-used playstation. Stacked on the floor beside it is a stack of games, a pretty close match to the pile in Mark’s own house.

Hm.

“You’ve done a lot of work on the place,” Mark says, using it as an excuse to wander through and take a good look at the house. A glimpse down the hallway shows a number of rooms still clearly fire-damaged, back to bare studs and insulation panels, but the staircase is repaired and the kitchen has been dragged up to date. It’s enormous, and shockingly nice. Enough bench space that people could sleep on them, a huge old farmhouse table and-

Mark freezes. He’s staring, hard at the picture window that affords a view of the lawn, and on to the woods. He cannot move.

Behind him, Hale is silent for probably a minute, then he steps up to Mark’s side, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the window seat. He glances sidelong at Mark, then says, “That was Stiles’ suggestion.”

“I know,” Mark says, and has to clear his throat. “I recognize it from-” His hands clench. “His uh, his mother always wanted one. We were thinking of putting one in when she... got sick. Never could bring myself to do it, after... After,” he finishes finally, and shoves his hands into his pockets.

He can feel Hale shift in surprise beside him, and then they are both staring at the window seat, upholstered in sunny yellow, a half-open book on the window-sill.

“What exactly is going on between you and my son, Mr Hale?”

Hale doesn’t fidget or squirm. He says steadily, “We’re friends.”

“And that’s it?”

“Not... entirely,” Hale says.

_Points for honestly_ , Mark thinks. “So... a man in his twenties, a man I have arrested more than once,” he adds deliberately, “is more-than-friends with my underage son.”

“I’m not sleeping with him,” Hale says. He doesn’t sound defensive or nervous, more... resigned.

“Let’s say I believe that,” Mark says. Because damn it, he does, and not just because of the tape. “That still leaves me wondering why a man like yourself is interested in a high school kid. You already have a teenager living with you,” he gestures to the clear signs of Teenage Boy – a huge pair of muddy trainers by the back door and the extensive collection of snack food visible through the frosted glass on the pantry doors. “From what I’ve seen, you’ve quite the collection of teenagers hanging around here, the Lahey boy for one-”

“What are you saying, Mr Stilinski?” Hale interrupts, but Mark can see by the tension in his shoulders that he already knows.

Mark swallows against the bad taste in his mouth. He’s a cop, and ugly implications are part of the game in any interrogation, but that doesn’t mean he likes it. He conjures up the image of Stiles, vulnerable on the floor of their home, and that soft stroke of his thumb over Derek’s cheek, and forces himself to continue.

“I’m saying it’s _odd_. I’m saying there’s something weird about a young man like yourself collecting teenagers for company instead of your own peers. This whole house,” he gestures, “is like catnip for high school kids. The video games, the seclusion from the rest of the town, the from what I can tell standing invitation for these kids to hang out here instead of in their own homes, free from any kind of parental supervision.”

“You think I’m- mistreating them,” Hale says, voice tighter than his shoulders. He hasn’t looked away from Stiles’ window and _god damn it_ , it’s _not_ Stiles’ window. This is not Stiles’ _home_. “Abusing them.”

“I’m- not exactly,” Mark says, suddenly feeling like a dirtbag. He’s finally recognized the book on the window seat, it’s a glossy college booklet. The Lahey boy walks confidently now, no more hunching and sidling away in fear. The Whittimore boy hasn’t had a speeding ticket in two months, which is damn near a miracle.

And Mark is remembering all over again that Derek has had it pretty damn rough so far, and that he had his home and most of his family burnt out from under him when he was younger than Stiles is now. _Hell_. Why can’t this be simple?

“I don’t think you’re sexually exploiting them or anything of that kind,” he says, just to be perfectly clear. “Not for one second do I think you’re hurting those kids. But you _are_ cutting them off from their families, Derek.”

And when did he start thinking of this punk as _Derek?_

Derek swallows hard and shifts, facing Mark. Arms folded, and despite the stupid stubble, he looks very young and raw. “I’m not –that wasn’t my intention,” he says. “I’m just giving them a safe place to be.”

Mark eyes him. “I believe you,” he says, suddenly gentle. “And what you’re doing for Isaac, that’s admirable. But my son doesn’t talk to me anymore, Derek. And I think we both know that traces back to you.”

The younger man’s mouth works. Then he gives one brief nod, eyes skittering to the window seat for a half-second before he seems to just- shut down. “I’ll- I’ll encourage him to spend less time here,” he finally says. Then slants a hard look across at Mark. “I _won’t_ tell him he’s not welcome. Just. Not as often.”

Mark takes a deep breath. Then he nods. “All right.” He still feels vaguely knotted up, like he’s done something wrong. But he _hasn’t_. Stiles is his son, and he’s going to lose him soon enough to college, to Life. He won’t lose him to Derek damn Hale first.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark can see the helplessness, the frustration on his son’s face. “Stiles,” he starts, praying for some patience, for the right words to fix this. “Son, what is it? You can tell me, whatever it is I swear I won’t let you down again-”

 

 

“What did you do.”

It’s Stiles, in full temper, and Mark sighs, torn between nostalgia and nerves. It’s been a while since he’s seen that, a while since Stiles has spent long enough at home to even _have_ an argument.

“What did you do to Derek.” He dumps his bag by the door and takes a step forward, jaw clenching in rage.

When did he get so tall?

“I didn’t do anything to Mr Hale,” Mark says carefully, and turns back to the pot of pasta boiling on the stove. He pokes it with a spoon.

“Then why does he look like someone kicked his puppy and gave it up for adoption? Why is he suddenly telling me I can’t come around anymore?”

“Maybe he’s just realized that it’s wildly inappropriate for a man in his twenties to be co-opting random teenagers into some kind of substitute family-”

“Oh, he’s just _realized_ this. All on his own-”

“Stiles, those kids have families of their own, and Derek needs to concentrate on making a life for himself-”

“He’s not doing anything wrong, he loves having us around,” Stiles shoots back, and hell, _of course_ he’s gone and gotten attached. “Everything’s better when we’re together. Jackson’s parents don’t give a shit where he is as long as he doesn’t cause them any trouble, Lydia’s haven’t even _noticed_ , Isaac is sure as hell are better off with Derek than-”

“And what about you and Scott, huh?” There’s a strange feeling in his chest, he doesn’t want to call it panic. “Are you two better off with _Derek_ than with your own parents?”

“Tell me honestly, Dad, what is this about? Because you’re at work so much you didn’t even notice how much time I was spending at Derek’s until this week. And Mrs McCall’s the same-”

“I have to _work_ , Stiles,” he cries, stung. “Jeez-”

“I _know_ that-”

“I can’t change the hours, or the callouts, you _know_ that-”

“Yes, I do. I know. And I don’t resent it, I don’t complain. We’ve gotten along just fine all this time so why- _why_ , Dad. Why did you have to ruin it?” And he sounds so damn _hurt_.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re having panic attacks again?”

Silence. “Wh-who told you that?”

“Does it matter? Why wouldn’t _you_ tell me that, Stiles? I’m your _father_. Don’t I deserve to know?”

He shoves his hands into his hair. “You-yes, you, of course you do.” He shoots a beseeching look at Mark. “It’s not like that, it’s not about deserving, Dad.”

“How the hell am I supposed to feel when I find out my own son is having panic attacks and hiding it from me, and on top of that he’s turning to a man I once _arrested for murder_ for comfort?”

Stiles eyes narrow. “What makes you assume I’m turning to Derek-”

Mark can feel himself flush and turns back to the stove abruptly. “You told me last night you’re seeing someone-” he begins, hoping the misdirection will work.

“What- what did you- are you _spying_ on me?”

He stares down at the bubbling water and says quietly, “The only reason you’d be asking me that question, Stiles, is if what I just said was right. That Derek Hale is taking care of you and helping you to hide your-”

“Oh my fucking God. You _are_. You’re- what, _following_ me? Planting bugs in my car, what?”

“That’s not the point,” Mark says, desperately wishing he had some moral high ground here besides the age-old _I was worried_ parental defence. If Stiles had been doing drugs or making pipe bombs he’d have had a lot more justification. Instead he just ended up feeling vaguely creeping from watching his son accept care and snuggles from his... _ugh_... _boyfriend_.

“I cannot _believe_ you would do that to me-”

“And I can’t believe you would lie to me, Stiles, but lately it’s all you’ve been doing! You can’t tell me you haven’t been spending all your time out at that house – his kitchen has your mother’s goddam window seat, for Pete’s sake-”

Stiles pales and steps back, guilt and anger warring on his face. “Well maybe I just enjoyed being in a place where someone would take care of _me_ , Dad, instead of the other way around.”

And that’s- Mark just freezes. Gutted. He has absolutely no leg to stand on there, and he knows it. He blinks at Stiles while the guilt and the grief rear up to close his throat, and then he steps back, bumps into the kitchen counter and reaches back to hold onto it with all his strength.

Stiles’ eyes close and he bites his lip. _“Fuck,”_ Mark hears, soft and regretful.

The silence stretches out. Mark takes a few shallow breaths and gets control of his voice. “I can’t say I don’t deserve that.”

“No,” Stiles is shaking his head, white with guilt and grief. “No, you don’t-”

“I know I haven’t been there like I should-”

“Yes, you have, Dad, it’s _fine_ -”

“It’s not fine, Stiles. Your mother would be so furious-” and his voice breaks on that one because that hurts maybe even more than letting Stiles down. Thinking of Holly watching this, her disappointment in him.

Stiles is there like a shot. Wraps his arms around Mark and dear God, he’s got real strength in those arms now, his boy. “No, Dad, that’s not true, we’re okay, we are. It’s just.” Stiles hugs tighter then sighs and swears, soft and helpless. He steps back and leans against the counter beside Mark, shoulders bumping. “There’s stuff I just, it’s not that you weren’t there or you weren’t enough, I just didn’t want to tell you and I can’t explain why.”

“But you can tell Derek Hale,” he says flatly.

Stiles lets out a sharp breath and his voice is low and miserable. “It’s not like that. It’s not a competition.”

“No,” Mark says, mouth twisting bitterly, “clearly there’s no competition at all.”

Stiles flinches, starts to speak, then reaches up and yanks on his hair. “Argh!” he shouts in frustration, “You don’t _get_ it-”

“No. Because you won’t _tell me_ , Stiles. I can’t possibly understand if you won’t-”

“I can’t, I _can’t_ just put you in d-”

Stiles shuts off like someone threw a switch and slams his hand down on the counter, hard. He’s breathing heavily, staring at the kitchen floor and Mark can see the helplessness, the frustration on his son’s face. “Stiles,” he starts, praying for some patience, for the right words to fix this. “Son, what is it? You can tell me, whatever it is I swear I won’t let you down again-”

Stiles chokes on that, holds up a hand, _stop_.

Mark does, throat tight.

For a long moment they just stare at each other. “You’ve _never_ let me down, Dad,” and his voice is just _broken_. Then Stiles gives a short, helpless shake of his head, snatches up his keys and storms away, stops at the front door before Mark can say anything else. “Don’t worry, I won’t go to-” his voice chokes off and he takes two deep breaths before he says, “I’ll go to Scott’s.”

He sounds so damn _hollow_ when he says it, like his last comfort in the world has been taken away. And then he’s gone, there’s just the sound of the front door closing and the Jeep pulling away.

Mark slides down the cabinets to sit on the kitchen floor and wonders just what in hell has got Stiles wound up so tight that he can’t even _talk_ anymore.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hale glances around like he’s praying for a meteorite to strike Beacon Hills at this moment, then scrubs a hand back and forth over his hair. Mark hears the barest murmur of something, sounds like _so bad at this,_ which- he’d have to agree.

 

Mark answers the door half an hour later and folds his arms across his chest.

“Mr Stilinski.”

“Derek,” he replies.

“Scott called me.”

Mark just nods.

There’s a long, awkward silence and Mark is just starting to think he should invite the punk inside to prevent gossip when Derek clears his throat. It’s probably a signal he’s about to speak, so Mark leans against the door frame and waits. And waits.

Hale glances around like he’s praying for a meteorite to strike Beacon Hills at this moment, then scrubs a hand back and forth over his hair. Mark hears the barest murmur of something, sounds like _so bad at this,_ which- he’d have to agree.

Then Derek suddenly glances up, hand still gripping the back of his neck, and looks Mark right in the eye. “You were right. Stiles has been lying to you. For a long time. And you were also right, that he’s doing it because of me. Not just because we’re dating, but about... something else, something from before any of - _that_ started.”

Mark just stares back at him. _Things I already knew_ , he thinks, bitterly, and wonders if this is somehow supposed to help.

Then Hale says, “If you come out to the house tonight, you’ll get your explanation. Why he thought it was... worth it. Who he’s been protecting.” And he looks grim as he says it, like this is gonna cost him. Then he adds, “Don’t tell Stiles. I’ll be on my own. Just- come to the house.”

Mark unfolds his arms and eyes Derek, head to foot. “All right,” he says, grudging. He hesitates, then says it, because he has to. “I can tell you now, Mr Hale. If you’re going to confess to a crime in front of me, I won’t sweep it under the carpet. So don’t go thinking you’ll get away with something just because you’ve somehow dragged my son into it.”

He hopes to Christ Derek can’t sense his own terror, or uncertainty. Because this is the only thing Mark can think of. He _knows_ his kid, he knows it’s not any of the usual teenage messes. A pregnancy. Drugs. Cheating on the SATs. Any one of those and Stiles would have come to him. Would have hesitated, sure, maybe tried to fix it himself. But at some point – at the very least in the middle of that ugly argument tonight – he would have laid it all out for Mark. No. Stiles would only shut his-father-the-Sherriff out like this out of protectiveness. Mark’s safety or his career. That has to be it.

And if there _is_ a body buried in the woods out there, metaphorical or not? If Stiles is somehow an accessory? Mark honestly isn’t sure what he’s going to do. He’s let Stiles down for the last time, he’ll protect Holly’s son no matter what it costs him.

The punk on his porch doesn’t flinch. “I know that, Sherriff,” he says calmly.

Derek turns to go and the exasperation has Mark speaking before he can think too hard about it. “I just have to ask,” he says. “The stubble, _what_ is the deal, exactly, with the permanent stubble?”

Derek freezes halfway down the stairs. The silence stretches out way too long for such a throwaway question, and then he says, “When I first... came back.”

_When my sister died_ , Mark hears.

“I didn’t have any hot water.”

_Living in the burnt-out ruins of my family home_.  Ah, shit.

“And then. Later.” And now he shifts, truly uncomfortable. “Stiles, he. Likes it.”

Mark just barely manages a nod. Once again Hale leaves him feeling like a dickwad. That’s quite the superpower he has there.

 

***

 

The front door of Hale’s house slams open in a weird re-enactment of the tape Mark had watched just last week. Hale clearly isn’t startled by Stiles’ intrusion, his body language had turned taut as wire five minutes ago, jaw set.

“Derek,” Stiles’ voice is urgent, face pale. He hasn’t noticed Mark lurking in the doorway to the kitchen. “ _Don’t_. Don’t do this.”

“Stiles-” Hale begins.

“You _can’t_ do this,” he grinds out, “It’s not up to you, this isn’t your choice to make. He’s _my_ father.”

“He’s your father and you’re losing him.”

“I’m – no,” Stiles says, “No, that’s – that’s not happening.” He runs a nervous hand over his scalp, then regathers. “And even if it was, it’s my decision and not yours. You don’t just get to-”

“I won’t be the cause of this, Stiles. I won’t watch you ruin your relationship with the only family you have left.” Derek’s focus is entirely on Mark’s son, he’s clearly forgotten anyone else is in the house at all.

“It’s not- it’s not like that,” Stiles says, shaky. _He’s nowhere near as sure of that as he wants to be,_ Mark thinks. _Damn_ , how could Stiles doubt him like that? “He’s all I’ve got left-”

“And you’ll protect him even at your own expense,” Derek finishes. Mark blinks. He’s not used to other people figuring out that side of Stiles. “Don’t think for one second that I don’t know what you’re doing, Stiles. I know you’ll take on any kind of crazy burden for someone you love. Well, I’m not letting you martyr yourself for the pack, or for me.”

God _damn_ it. He does not want to have any admiration for Hale. Doesn’t want to watch him do the right thing.

Hale is still talking. “He deserves to know about your life, and he needs to know what you-”

“But _I_ need him to be _safe_ ,” Stiles says suddenly, deadly serious. “And that is _my_ decision to make, Derek, not yours.”

Hale’s fists clench. He’s not as calm as he’s pretending. “Not anymore.”

“Don’t do this,” Stiles says. His voice is thick with hurt and rage. “Derek, _don’t_. Don’t do this to me. To _us._ ”

“The decision’s made, Stiles.”

He takes one short breath, closes his eyes. “You do this,” he replies, low, “and I’ll never forgive you.”

Mark watches that rip the guts right out of Hale. The guy lets out a silent breath, hunching, then squares his shoulders and firms his jaw.

Stiles swallows, reading the answer in the body language. “This is _absolutely not_ your decision to make, Derek, you’re not my-”

“What?”

There’s a long, weighted silence. Then Stiles lifts his head and looks Hale right in the eye. “You’re not my _anything_ ,” he rasps out, and it’s hurting him to say it, and this has gone far enough.

“Stiles.” Mark steps forward and Stiles glances up, startled and then guilty. Mark watches the thoughts run through his head, replaying the conversation and trying to figure out how much Mark already knows. For a long moment they’re all silent, watching and thinking and hesitating.

Then Derek says, slow and heavy, “I know. I know I’m not- But I’ll protect you any way I can, Stiles.”

Then every other thought flies out of Mark’s head because when Derek turns toward him, his face is that of a monster.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’ve been running around this town, running around the woods with a werewolf. _Dating_ a goddam _werewolf_.” Mark slams his hand down on the table, exasperated beyond belief. “ _Stiles!”_
> 
> “It’s okay,” he soothes, coming toward Mark with his hands outstretched.
> 
> Stiles takes a moment to shoot a furious glare at Hale, so maybe the _dating a werewolf_ thing is in the past now. Small mercies.

 

 

 

 

“Werewolf.”

Hale nods, his face shifting back to human. Stiles is fluttering around the edges of Derek’s kitchen, only relaxes when he gets Mark to sit at the oversized table and holster his weapon. Probably worrying about Mark’s heart or his blood pressure or something. And possibly Hale getting shot.

At that moment, his blood pressure almost certainly does spike, because he suddenly thinks _, Stiles with a werewolf, Stiles kissing a werewolf, Stiles helping a werewolf_ , and he starts flicking back through the past few months, no, _shit_ , further back, more than a year since Derek Hale arrived. Hale comes forward, moving very slowly, takes another seat at the table, not too close to Mark.

“You’ve been running around this town, running around the woods with a werewolf. _Dating_ a goddam _werewolf_.” Mark slams his hand down on the table, exasperated beyond belief. “ _Stiles!”_

“It’s okay,” he soothes, coming toward Mark with his hands outstretched.

Stiles takes a moment to shoot a furious glare at Hale, so maybe the _dating a werewolf_ thing is in the past now. Small mercies.

“Dad, _calm down_. This is all okay. Nobody’s hurt, nothing’s-”

“Nobody’s hurt? What about that Martin girl? And the nurse from the hospital. And all those killings last year-” He startles up out of his chair so fast it tips over backwards and Hale doesn’t move. His hands are flat on the table – hands, not claws – and Mark’s hand is on his weapon again and Stiles goes white. _Animal attacks_ is all he can think _._

“No. _No_ , Dad.” Stiles shifts, like he’s going to get in between them and Hale growls a warning. _Growls_. Stiles looks exasperated for a moment, then angry all over again before he refocuses on Mark. “It wasn’t Derek. None of them. Please sit down, please _calm_ down.”

Mark just looks between the two of them. _Mountain lions_.

“Dad,” Stiles says, and swallows. “Please. I swear. He hasn’t done anything except protect us.”

“Us?”

Stiles licks his lips and glances at Hale, who shrugs. He’s diminished, suddenly, like revealing his true nature has stripped the bones out of him, the strength. He’s just sitting there, eyes fixed on Stiles’ hands.

Then Stiles says, “Scott was bitten. Last year. He’s a- he’s.” Stiles gestures roughly toward Derek, who is trying to be as still and small as a grown man can be. Head down, eyes fixed on the table. Mark will think about the significance of that gesture later.

“ _Scott’s_ a werewolf?” He glares at Hale, “You changed him into some kind of _monster?”_ Then another jolt goes through him and he turns, quick as a snake, toward his son.

_“No,”_ Derek says harshly before he can speak. “Stiles is as human as you are. He hasn’t been bitten. He’s fine.”

“I _promise_ ,” Stiles says, eyes wet. “And no, Derek didn’t bite Scott. And they’re not _monsters_ , Dad. Don’t- just-” he shakes his head and collapses into a chair like he’s hurt. “Don’t _call them that_ , okay.”

Mark sinks back into another chair, finally, forced to admit his legs just won’t hold him any longer.

He turns over the facts he’s being given, lines them up so they make sense. If he treats it like a case, maybe he’ll be able to breathe. If Derek didn’t bite Scott - that leaves only one explanation. “There’s _more_ of you?”

“I was born a wolf,” Derek says, low. “It’s in my blood.”

Mark thinks that over. _Hale blood_. “The nurse. She’d been working in the long-term facility- “Your uncle. He killed the nurse. He was a ...werewolf, too.”

Hale nods once.

“And your sister, another wolf?”

He nods again.

“Your whole family?”

“No. It’s not that simple. It’s more like having... a medical history of something, like diabetes. Some get it, some don’t.” He takes a deliberate breath, then says, “My father and my little brother and sister were all human.”

Mark stutters a little at that, at the reminder. “The fire,” he says. “Was that because-”

And just like that Stiles is at Derek’s side, hand gripping his shoulder. Derek’s eyes close, head bowing like the grief combined with Stiles’ proximity are too much for him to carry.

“Kate Argent,” Stiles says, face twisting, and wow, Mark did not know his son could look like that. So hard, so full of hate. “She set the fire to kill the wolves, didn’t care that they weren’t hurting anyone, didn’t care that half of them weren’t even wolves.”

Derek just sits there, like stone. Silence falls in the revamped kitchen, and Stiles doesn’t move from Derek’s side. He’s forgotten his anger, forgotten everything but the instinctive protectiveness that’s as much a part of him as the color of his eyes.

“Werewolves,” Mark says again in wonder.

 

***

 

“Okay,” Mark says. “Rules.”

_“Daa-aad-”_ Stiles begins, in the age-old teenage whine. Mark’s had a day or two to process the werewolves side of things, now it’s time for the parental part of the equation.

“All right,” Derek says. He looks squarely at Mark, waiting.

“Hey!”

“He’s a teenager. He’s still in high school, and he has the potential to do a hell of a lot with his life,” Mark says, and _what is his life_ that he’s getting nodding agreement from his son’s boyfriend on all of this.

“Grades,” Derek says, like he has some kind of list. “Friends. College.”

Mark swallows hard. Hale is – _Derek_ is serious about Stiles. He _knew_ this, it was kind of hard to miss with the life-altering confession and taking the risk of being shot, but. It’s still an adjustment. It’s still hard for Mark to admit that there might be someone else out there who worries about Stiles the way he does.

“My grades are _fine_ , thank you very much,” and oh, Stiles is _pissed_. It’s kind of a nice change to see that narrow-eyed glare directed at someone else.

“And they’ll stay that way,” Mark says mildly.

“They’ve _been_ staying that way,” Stiles says, “even with the kanima and the Alpha pack and that time I got kidn-” he abruptly thinks better of this line of argument when Mark freezes and glares.

He’s not quite ready to accept the things that have been going on behind his back, the number of times his son’s life has been in danger, and those are just the ones he’s figured out in hindsight. They’re going to go over all of that _in detail_ , as soon as Mark has a day off to decompress, so that he will be free to either drown his sorrows or go to the range and shoot things. Once these spot fires stop breaking out all over town, _then_ he can afford to have a breakdown or a bender.

“And he will not be risking life and limb every week like this is some damn episode of Buffy,” Mark grits out. “Unlike you, Stiles is human and can be hurt. Can be killed. He can also be grounded for the _rest of his natural life_.”

Derek nods, perfectly contained. For a moment Mark’s temper sparks at the lack of reaction, and then he realizes in a rush that this is not new territory - these thoughts probably haunt Derek constantly. A natural-born brooder like Hale would have had thoughts like this a thousand times over. There’s probably no other person walking this earth who is as aware of Stiles’ vulnerability.

“Wait just a minute.” Stiles shoves to his feet. “You two can stop talking about me like I’m not even here, Jesus. I think I’ve proven I can handle myself, and oh my God, I’m totally Willow,” he mutters to himself at the end. He grins and slumps against the kitchen bench as he counts off on his fingers, “Wicked smart, gay and _totally badass_.”

“You’ve proven you can put yourself in ten kinds of danger without even trying,” Mark says just as Derek adds, “You don’t worry enough about your own safety, Stiles.”

Stiles flings up his hands and whirls. “Oh my God, like _you_ can talk, you self-sacrificing-”

“It’s my job to face those kinds of danger, to take those risks, that’s what an Alpha is for-”

“Do _not_ start with this bullshit, okay? Because this is _not_ about being the alpha, this is about you thinking you deserve to be hurt, that you’re not worth saving-”

Mark’s tempted to let it go on for a while, because watching Stiles go toe to toe with Derek is allaying a lot of his concerns about coercion and influence and the wide-eyed blossoming of first love, but he did actually have a point to make, and he is going to make it.

“-let that _bitch_ mess with your head any more than she already has-”

“Ahem.”

Stiles stops, blinking. Bites his lip and glances guiltily over at Mark. He sags back against the bench again, sheepish. “Um. Sorry.”

He shares another commiserating look with Derek. That’s definitely becoming A Thing, as Stiles would say. “Now. I’m hardly a strict parental figure, Stiles-”

That earns him a disbelieving snort and he adds smoothly “-though I could certainly become one, maybe along the lines of Bud Evesleigh?”

Stiles goes visibly pale and raises a hand as if to mask his mouth as he hisses in a low aside to Derek. “Deputy from Forde county. His daughters aren’t allowed to read glossy magazines and they _don’t own a television_. Possibly an _alien_.”

“As I was _saying_ ,” Mark ignores Stiles’ flailing with a minimum of effort. He’s had a lot of practise, after all. “I don’t want to act like a heavy handed ogre. But I have got to know when you’re with Derek that you’re _safe-_ or for that matter, when you’re with the- the pack.” It’s going to be a while before Mark can use that word easily.

And how bizarre is it that he’s having this talk with Stiles’ first boyfriend and he literally means _safe_ , not euphemistically please-use-condoms kind of safe. Right now he’d almost prefer to be having that talk. _Ugh_.

“Dad, that’s the whole point. The pack take care of each other.”

“But the _pack_ are _werewolves_ , Stiles. They can’t be hurt the way you can.”

“You are _not_ going to treat me like some freakin’ princess in a tower!”

“Geez, that sounds uncomfortably like heteronormative stereotyping there, Stiles. Not what I’d have expected to hear from my gay son.”

It probably says a lot about Mark that he really enjoys the gaping look that gets him from Stiles before the eyes narrow.

Mark flicks a glance at Derek, who is looking politely confused and mutters, “Sensitivity training. Whole department does it every year.” He turns back to Stiles, “I’m pretty sure Allison and Lydia, not to mention Erica, would kick your skinny butt for that kind of-”

“Okay, yes, fine, not what I meant-”

“Neither of us thinks you’re weak, Stiles,” Derek breaks in, like he can’t take any more of the Stilinksi-style arguing. Fair enough, it’s an acquired taste, after all. He’ll get there.

Mark blinks. Ah, _shit_.

He’s just gone and fallen right off that cliff, hasn’t he? He’s already thinking of Derek not as Stiles’ ill-advised first romance, but as Mark’s damned future son-in-law. He shakes his head and files that one away next to My Son One Day Having Sex and Okay, Maybe I Need to Eat Better Because these Pants Definitely Used to Fit Me. That box is labelled Not Ready, No Way, No How, Nup, Not Yet.

“What we _do_ think,” Mark adds, trying to order his thoughts, “is that you don’t understand how precious you are, or how much we’d do to protect you.”

Two generations of Stilinskis break eye contact at that, clearing their throats uncomfortably at this gushy display of emotion. Derek’s eyes glow red, though, as if satisfied on some primal level.

“Yeah, but. Dad. You gotta understand. The pack, it’s. It’s like family. It’s important. You can’t cut me off-”

“There are ways to make Stiles safer,” Derek breaks in, speaking directly to Mark now. “Without separating him from the pack. Things we can do to this house, to his car, things he can carry with him. And he will have an extra measure of protection as my-” then he stops, abruptly, flushing deeply.

_Forgot who you were talkin’ to, didya?_ Mark thinks. He’s honestly torn between amusement and horror.

“Right,” Stiles says, ignoring Derek’s discomfort. He drops back into his chair, “Because I’ll carry the scent of an Alpha with me, which means most supernatural creatures will crap themselves and hook out of town in a hurry, or else fall all over themselves to offer me like, pearls and tiaras and shit, right?”

“Are... you aware how often you’re making yourself the girl, Stiles?” Mark has to ask. He just _has_ to.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Fine, they’ll offer me pimped out muscle cars and designer plaid shirts.”

Derek opens his mouth and Stiles points one long finger at him without looking away from Mark. “Do _not_ start on the shirts, man. I have a look, they are a part of that look.”

Derek subsides, looking mutinous.

“Either way, the vast majority of any potential problems will not want to tangle with someone so closely connected to an Alpha werewolf, especially one who just successfully defended his territory against an Alpha pack. So,” Stiles spreads his hands, like it’s a done deal.

Mark raises his eyebrows and folds his arms.

“Dad, I swear. Having an alpha werewolf boyfriend is like, it’s like dating the Godfather or something.” Then he blinks, like maybe-just _maybe_ \- that didn’t sound as good as he’d hoped.

Derek is staring at Stiles with a _you dumbass_ look on his face. Mark is more than familiar with the vein of hopeless affection that runs beneath that look.

“By which I mean-”

And that’s when Mark gives up. He covers his face with one hand and raises the other in the universal gesture of _please, God, stop_. “Don’t Stiles. Just- _don’t_ reassure me. I beg of you.”

Stiles huffs and flings his arms out like _he’s_ the victim here, then throws his head back and casts his eyes up to the ceiling. Mark takes his chance, glances sideways and catches Derek’s eye.

They eyeball each other for a long moment. Then the alpha gives him a slow, grave nod. Mark lets out a quiet breath and straightens, understanding in that moment everything the other man does not say. He nods back in acknowledgement, and feels the tightness in his chest ease a little.

Derek Hale will kill or die to protect Stiles. Same as Mark. Everything else is details.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting Part 3 of the series in the next day or so.


End file.
